Heavnly door

poetry isn’t every ones cup of tea so l wrote this one at night when l could not sleep.
From the day we first breathe we are taught to believe that god racks up the score.
But after a while one has to smile at the thought of a heavenly door.
but if there is one thing l dread it’s after l’m dead fate throws up one last quirk.
I’m stuck in a queue with a million or two and find that the toilet’s don’t work.
Now it’s my turn to ascend or to burn, god has a frown on his face, “l have just had a look in my little old book and it seems you’r a border line case”.
A coin will be tossed my fingers are crossed, will l dwell with the good or the dregs then my bladder gives way with a glorious spray what should have been crossed was my legs.
God was not amused his halo had fused, boy was l in a fix, as quick as a wink l’d diluted his ink and ruined his bombay mix.
I dropped to one knee preparing to plea my reactions would have to be quick.
I gave him a towel and said with a growl “stop sending the plumbers to old nick”.His eyes started to gleam
which awakened my dream, on many a thought did l chew, at your final goodbye as you take your last sigh make sure you are sat on the loo.

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